It’s easy to imagine how somebody would believe the vodyanoy, the old spirit man of the sea, lurks out there. Swimming just below the surface, hungering for human life, aggravated by the neglect of sailors who fail to make the proper offerings. One swish of his scaly tale would sink a ship. So the stories go.
“They’ll be back,” says my husband suddenly. “Tomorrow.”
“Chief Manager Baranov will be pleased,” I say, but only after a slight pause, because I thought he was talking about the vodyanoy, or perhaps the stars.
“Timofei Osipovich says they’ll bring all the sea otter skins we want.”
I squeeze his arm. “I hope he’s right.”
Nikolai Isaakovich pulls away. “Why would you say that?” he says sharply.
In the dark, it’s hard to see what’s in his face. “I meant nothing,” I say cautiously. “Only that I await their return, with the pelts.”
He relaxes, and, after a bit, he kisses me on the temple. “Come now, Anya. Let’s go. That’s enough for today.”
There’s no sign of life from the coast when we awaken. The morning stretches to noon, and still the koliuzhi do not reappear. Midday, we eat, and the leftover ukha warms my toes. Nikolai Isaakovich refuses his serving and remains on deck. He paces and watches the coast. He peers through his telescope, slowly scanning the shore. Zhuchka watches him, her eyes mournful, her ears flattened as though she already knows that he’ll see nothing of what he seeks.
CHAPTER TWO
There are times at sea when everything seems favourable—the wind does not slow the ship, the current is advantageous, the sky is clear, and, if you’re very fortunate, the sun warms the vessel and buoys everyone’s spirits. Six weeks into our journey the brig enters a period of such favourable conditions. After having endured weeks of mostly grey sky, frequent rain, and capricious winds that either blew too strongly or diminished and left the brig becalmed, this ease is welcome.
The crew members work together like they’re in a dance, each man knowing the next step and undertaking it with pleasure. The ropes groan, the rigging rattles, and the sails billow like they aspire to be clouds. The promyshlenniki’s movements are graceful and generous as they manipulate canvas and cordage to move us closer to our destination.
“Destruction Island,” says Timofei Osipovich, indicating a distant pan of land late one afternoon. “That’s the English name.”
“Why? What does that mean?” I say.
“Destruction?” He shakes his head. “It means ruin. Everything that touches that place is ruined. No good has ever come from it. No good ever will.”
Rocky cliffs rim the island. The sea foams like a frothy dessert next to its westernmost edge. It appears harmless, even beautiful from this distance. As we pass to its south, we come closer and are afforded a fresh view. Like a hat, it sits atop the waves. Two long tongues of land bend away from its coast and thrust out into the sea. Behind it, in the distance, the shore looks mostly sandy and flat, except for a few stacks and the distant mouth of a river dotted with sea birds.
“Did they wreck their ships here?” I peer, wondering if I might spot the remains of a broken mast or hull, evidence of the calamities after which the island has been named.
Timofei Osipovich laughs. “It’s not for wrecked ships.”
“Then what?”
“You think—the vodyanoy?” he taunts. He curls his fingers into claws and bares his teeth. He lurches at me with a growl, then laughs when I recoil. “Don’t worry, Madame Bulygina, I’m teasing.” Then nonchalantly he adds, “It’s only because of the koliuzhi.”
The old Aleut Yakov is nearby, cap tilted away from his face, mop in hand, a bucket of seawater at his feet. He’s grey-haired and grizzled, missing many of his teeth, easily the oldest man on the crew. According to my husband, he’s been working for the Russian-American Company since he was six years old, so his Russian is quite good, though accented.
“It’s better we don’t speak of such things here at this time of day,” he says, slapping his mop to the deck, and turning his back.
I stare hard at the island. Are there people out there watching us? People whose intentions are less than noble? What did they do to the English? I’m not pious—I place all my faith in rational thought and the scientific method—but I can’t help but brush my fingers along the silver cross on my necklace, just in case.
My mother fastened the silver cross around my neck long ago. I was only eight years old. I had a raging fever and a hoarse cough, and she sat up with me for several nights. Her hand was cool and weightless as a feather against my forehead, against my cheek. Then a rash spread over my body, rolling hills of red blossoms that reached the ends of my limbs. It itched so badly I wanted to tear off my skin.
“It’s measles,” my father said. “Every child gets it. You must let it be.” He cut my fingernails so short I couldn’t scratch myself.
Within a day, I could no longer see.
The doctor insisted my father was right: it was measles, and the loss of vision, while troubling, would likely be temporary. He’d seen it before. He prescribed bitter medicine. He ordered the curtains drawn and the lamps extinguished; no light was to enter my room as it could render me permanently blind.
I was alone with my mother when the visions started. I bolted upright in bed, and I screamed.
“What is it?” my mother cried.
There were serpents twining around branches, fiery-eyed bears with unsheathed claws, a mushroom that transformed into a wolf that stalked me. These were from the stories all parents told their children to teach them caution. There was also a kitten that I cuddled in my coat only to have it die and transform into a skeleton. A hunter who lured me into the forest and tried to leave me with an old woman who wanted to chop off my fingers. These were strange beings from the even more disturbing stories my mother and her friends shared. The creatures had come alive at last, and I could neither close nor open my eyes against any of them, for they existed inside me.
“If you hadn’t filled her mind with all that superstitious nonsense, she’d be fine,” my father said. “It’s just a fever.”
He called the doctor back. My medicines were changed. He prescribed tonics that smelled so vile I gagged before taking even a mouthful. I couldn’t sleep at all; the visions came whether my eyes were open or closed. My skin was on fire. Days ran into one another, with no change.
My father called the doctor for the third time. He brought a reeking bucket whose contents smelled of rotting fish. He told my mother to apply it to my rash twice a day and leave it for a half hour. Once the proscribed time had passed, she could remove the poultice and plunge me into an ice-cold bath.
My father had the servants carry the bathtub up the staircase and roll it into my bedchamber. They brought bucket after bucket of cold water until it was filled. I heard splash after splash, the servants’ voices subdued.
When it was all ready, my mother said to my father, “I’ll take care of it now.” Her cool hand rested firmly on my forehead.
I detected my father’s uncertainty. He wouldn’t have completely trusted my mother to comply with the doctor’s orders, and yet, his presence in the room while I bathed would have been unthinkable.
“Are you sure you heard the doctor correctly?” my father said.
“I did.” She rose from my side and I heard her footsteps moving toward the door.
“You can’t lift her into the bath tub. She’ll be too heavy for you.”
“I can do it.” The latch clicked as my mother closed the door softly behind him.